Tempest Rising
by AmaranthineParadox
Summary: Tala Wolfblood is far from a 'true' Nord. But she still believes that the Stormcloaks are the best chance that Tamriel has. As for Ulfric? Well... Ulfric was supposed to be dead.
1. A Bitter Homecoming

It had been a long time since the winds of her homeland had touched her pale skin. She closed her eyes against the sensation, the chill pleasant against her fevered face even as it bit painfully into the rest of her exposed skin. But she couldn't allow herself to revel in the feeling for long.

She had spent months traversing the wilds since she smuggled herself into that port in Valenwood, and she knew that they had to be Dominion trackers on her tail. Cringing slightly at the pull of her wounds as she moved, she wondered for what must have been the thousandth time why she hadn't stolen a horse. Surely she could have found someone who deserved to be rid of their equine companion.

Like any bloody Imperial.

Her chest tightened in rage at the thought of how her brothers-in-arms had betrayed them.

 _How could they? After all we fought, all we sacrificed…_

How she had reveled in telling that to Tala. Her thin lips had curved in a cruel smile, golden eyes mocking…

The Nordic woman squeezed her eyes shut.

 _I don't have the time for this right now._

A few days back, when she had caught her first sight of snow, her heart had leapt. Now, even in the cold remained relatively comfortable on her skin, her feet-wrappings were soaked with sweat and now slowly beginning to freeze. What with the sun going down, she needed to find shelter for the night. Luckily, the Pale Pass had no shortage of caves – though she would try to find a small one, less a more complex system have… unfriendly inhabitants.

After about half an hour of searching in the fading light, she found a suitable niche in a sheer rock face, empty but for a few bleached bones. Whatever predator had used it, they hadn't used it in a long time.

Pulled her ragged bedroll from her bag, Tala curled up against the night chill, unwilling to light a fire out of fear of the attention it might attract.

 _…What a glorious homecoming this is._

When dawn broke, Tala's movements were practiced and efficient. Within minutes she was on the move, headed to the last hope for a free Tamriel. Their name was hot on everyone's lips, from Valenwood to the Capital.

Someone had dared to rise against the Empire. And therefore, by extension, the Thalmor.

Their name… it was far too familiar.

She had fought along side one of them, had sworn her undying allegiance to another. She had sworn to protect him. And she had failed.

It had been years. Hoag had to be dead. So who was leading the fight?

Had he had another son after news of Ulfric's capture? Some rumors said that Ulfric himself was the one at the head of the rebellion, but Tala knew that was impossible.

 _Because Ulfric is dead. He's dead, all because I wasn't good enough. If Galmar survived the War, he will never forgive me_.

She clenched her jaw. She would take to her knees in front of this unknown heir, and she would beg their forgiveness. She, who begged for no one. But she would do it for the Stormcloak family, because she owed that and so much more. And then she would fight until she could fight no more, because that was what she did.

 _I will fight until my homeland is free. No, until all of Tamriel is free._

Lost in her thoughts as she was and dazed by fever, she was almost upon the fighting before she realized the presence of others. The cries of someone trapped in the throes of death snapped her to awareness, adrenaline rushing through her veins.

In front of her, she saw red and brown clashing with blue and silver. Her breath left her. She knew those uniforms – both of them. How fitting that the rebels would take the mantle of Windhelm, from where the Stormcloaks came.

From where all mankind came.

She drew her pilfered blade from her belt with one hand and summoned blue flame with the other. It was elven blade, glinting golden-green in the sun. Sharp, despite repeated use. And she charged into the fray, ignoring the way her malnourished muscles screamed in protest and her wounds stretched almost past their breaking point.

 _I will not fail again._

Just as she crossed blades with her first opponent, the hairs on the back of her neck rose and a feeling not unlike static brushed across her skin. It was something she had felt before, but never thought to feel again, and her heart clenched painfully. For the space of a heartbeat, a strange silence settled over the battlefield, like the calm before a storm.

It was impossible. It was just a memory. They was no way –

Yet suddenly, it was.

"FUS… RO DAH!" A roughed voice shouted with deep fury. It was a voice that was all too familiar. Brown and red bodies flew threw the air, and she plunged her blade into the heart of her opponent as she spun to see the source, her own heart beating with the force of war drums.

Impossible.

And yet there he was. A shallow cut above his right eye was slowly dripping blood down his face, and she could see even from here how the years had aged him. His movements were slower, though that was more likely from the fatigue of battle than from the loss of youth.

 _He's alive._

As shocked as she was, it was only from year of battle-honed instinct that she heard the skirmisher coming up behind her. She spun on the balls of her feet once more, bringing her blade down in a deadly arc.

Being a half-bred mutt did have some advantages.

The downward slash caught him brutally in the skull, and he fell. She pulled her sword free and sheathed it as she ducked to avoid an arrow, summoning dual storms of fire and ice to her palms. When a group of Imperials charged at her, she unleashed the fury of the elements upon them, taking a perverse pleasure at their final expressions – surprise.

A Nordic mage was a bit of a novelty, after all. Good thing her matted hair was covering her ears.

She didn't have much time to linger, however. A female greatsword wielder nearby had been cornered by three Imperials, and they were wearing her down. Tala took a quick glance at Ulfric – he was her first priority, but he appeared to be doing fine. They were outnumbered, and they were losing men and woman far to quickly, but as long as he was alive, the battle wasn't lost.

She rushed to help her unexpected comrade, switched to illusion and letting herself disappear into the fray. In chaos like this, even if someone had been looking at her, they wouldn't be able to keep eyes on her now.

She caught the first of three by surprise, drawing a crude iron dagger from her belt and slicing his jugular. But that, of course, broke the spell. The female Stormcloak had collapsed to the ground, so now it was two against one.

And one of them had a warhammer.

She had faced worse odds before, but she was already wounded, and she tired.

She still might have won… if she hadn't then taken an arrow to the shoulder.


	2. Destiny is a Funny Thing

When she awoke, she was dazed with fever and her wounds were burning. She curled slightly into herself, barely noticing her bound hands. One of the sores on her back split open, spilling some manner of infectious fluid on her skin.

I really need to get to a healer. She thought foggily. The wounds had been inflicted with an enchanted blade, and simple healing spells and potions had not been enough to close them. She had barely been keeping the infection at bay with her rudimentary Restoration knowledge – and now it seemed to be spreading.

She heard a sharp intake of breath across from her, and struggled to look up.

"Are… you alright?" It was a Nordic man, garbed in Stormcloak armor. His hands were bound as well. She looked around groggily – they were in a cart, along with two other men. One of them… was Ulfric, gagged so that he was unable to use his Voice.

 _We…lost then._

"I'm fine." She grit out, looking away. "What happened?" Her voice was rough and soft, tone almost beyond recognition. She realized, sadly, that Ulfric still hadn't recognized her when he made no reaction to her speaking.

We have both changed so much.

The other man looked at her with sympathy in his eyes, which made her skin burn with shame. She hated to be pitied.

"Our leader…he surrendered. He didn't want us all to die needlessly."

Tala didn't have a reply, save a sad smile.

He has grown up.

The Nordic man then looked at her with a poorly disguised curiosity.

"Why did you get involved? Were you looking to join up, or…?"

"I suppose you could say I was looking to join up. Though it doesn't really matter now."

How disappointing… that after all this pain, all this struggle, she would die as soon as she came home. It wasn't like they were going to imprison them – they were going to die. She only wished that it could have been on the battlefield instead.

Another person on the cart didn't quite fit in. He was dressed in rags the same as she, and his face was dirty. When he saw her looking at him, his lip curled.

"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"This is your war too, thief. This is everyone's war."

He simply scoffed and looked away.

Before she could continue, the man at the front of the cart snapped at them roughly.

"Shut up back there!"

Tala's lips curled in a feral snarl, but she didn't reply.

She had been trained better than that.

Lokir was looking at Ulfric now, and Tala had the feeling that whatever he was about to say, she wouldn't appreciate it.

"And's what's wrong with him, huh?"

She and the other Stormcloak spoke in near unison.

"Show some respect! You're addressing - "

"Watch your tongue. You're speaking to - "

They then both paused at looked at each other oddly. Despite the gravity of the situation, the man couldn't help but crack a small joke.

"You sure you're not a Stormcloak?" He asked with a humorless smile.

Tala grinned back darkly. "Not yet. Now, not ever I suppose."

The thief looked terrified, like he was slowly being forced to confront a reality he didn't want to face.

"What do you mean, not ever?"

She looked at him with irritation. "Are you truly that dense, or do you just not want to accept reality? We are going to our deaths, you fool."

"Wherever we're going, Sovngarde awaits." The Stormcloak man said resignedly.

The thief began panicking. "No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening."

Tala just resisted the urge to sigh. She tuned out the rest of the conversation as she stared up at the sky, avoiding looking at Ulfric, or at his soldiers that we doomed to die. She caught only a fragment of the soldier's statement – that a Nord's last thoughts should be of home.

Indeed. And even for such a short time… I am glad to be home. She thought, watching the clouds swirl and eddy in the strong northern winds above them.

As they wheeled into the small city she recognized as Helgen, Tala registered a feminine voice on the edge of her hearing. Chills wracked down her spine, and she instinctively curled into herself, trying to hide her face. She faintly registered that Ulfric had gone pale beside her, body frozen and eyes wide.

No, she can't be here. She is supposed to stay in Summerset, she can't be here…

Her heart beating a frantic, uneven rhyme, Tala dared to take a tiny glance up. Elenwen hadn't appeared to have noticed her, as she engaged in a fierce argument with a man who wore the trappings of an Imperial General.

Unbidden, a frown came to her face. Even to execute a rebel leader, having a General this far from the cozy insides of whatever castle he was stationed at was unlikely.

She looked sideways at Ulfric.

 _What did you do?_

She had heard rumors, of course, most far to outlandish to even consider possible. But one of them must have been…

Tala exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding as Elenwen galloped away, rage on her face.

She was safe.

Well, she was about to die, so that wasn't really true. But she wasn't in Elenwen's cruel golden fingers, so she almost didn't care.

She looked down at her bare arms, the branching scars left by lightning magic marking them like brands.

They had liked to put a wet cloth over her face, and then poured water down upon it, so that she had felt as though she was drowning. They would do it again and again, until she gasped for breathe and her vision went dark.

They waited until her whole body was soaked, and then stripped the rags from her frame.

Then… then came the lightning, crackling bright between long, elegant fingers colored golden and bronze. It was beautiful – until it touched her wet skin. Then, it was simply agony. Pain that was so pure as to be white, overwhelming all other sensations until the feeling of her skin crackling beneath the onslaught was all she knew.

After the first few months, she didn't even have any information they wanted anymore. They just liked hearing her scream.

She shuddered as she came back too, the jostling of the cart coming to a stop rousing her from waking nightmares. Ulfric was looking at her now, his brow furrowed, his expression just on the edge of recognition. She couldn't bring herself to be offended that he didn't recall her face – while it might have been a while since she had looked in a mirror, she doubted that even she would recognize herself, and dirty and starved and scarred at she was. He had changed to – but not as much as she. If given more time, he would likely be able to but the pieces together. Her silver eyes, at least, had not faded with the years.

But that would come too late.

"Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!"

The thief was panicking again, sprouting fearful words that would do nothing to change what was coming. Tala couldn't bring herself to care or even listen – what good would it do? Instead, she looked towards the skies once more, comfortably numb.

 _At least I will die knowing that it wasn't my failure that led him to his death._

She got off the cart as if floating, expression vacant. She had long since learned the value of detaching oneself.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

This brought her back to the world, if only for a moment. She looked on sadly as he walked away.

At least Sovngarde awaits us.

The other Stormcloak spoke of honor, and Tala smiled without humor.

But truly, what honor is there in death?

"Ralof of Riverwood."

 _Well, now I know the name of the man I will die beside._

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Tala watched almost with annoyance as he ran and was shot down.

What did he think he was going to accomplish? The headsman would have been a less painful death.

"Wait. You there. Step forward."

She stepped forward, head held high.

"Who are you?"

Her voice was soft and jagged, rough from disuse. But her tone was proud, though she doubted anyone else would even hear her.

"Tala Wolfblood, Stormblade of Windhelm."

But the one person she had truly been speaking for, the one she doubted would listen – he did hear. His head shot up, eyes wide. His mouth moved behind the gag, words muffled.

When she looked to meet his eyes, the she found her own pain matched.

 _I'm sorry._

The one holding the list cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him.

"I'm not sure what this means, but you appear to be openly affiliated with these traitors, so your fate will be the same as theirs. To the block, prisoner."

She had expected no less, and turned to face her destiny.


End file.
